What's my Line?
by Helen C
Summary: He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.
1. Part One

**Title** : What's my Line?

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.

**Spoilers** : Everything aired so far is fair game.

**Disclaimer** : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**AN**. This one is… weird. The first part is heavily angsty, the second is relatively light-hearted and full of snarky!Lee, and the third falls somewhere in the middle. So, obviously, tone-consistency issues. That's just the way it popped into my mind. If it can help, consider this as three only-vaguely-related ficlets. I do.

**AN2**. Heartfelt thanks to joey51 for her help with this. As usual, I tinkered; all remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**What's my Line?**

Helen C.__

_Part One_

Ever since the beginning of the war, Lee has grown used to hearing people talk about destiny—yet another thing that didn't use to be an issue back when he was a cadet and the issues of politics, ideals and faith, didn't worry him.

President Roslin is the dying leader whose destiny it is to lead them all to Earth (a mythical planet from their sacred writings), even if it means splitting the Fleet in two and losing her soul over the quest.

Leoben once told Kara that she had a destiny and Kara believes it, no matter how much she tries to dismiss it. It's a big part of the reason why Lee has to live with the image of her Viper exploding in front of him burned into his memory. Neither time nor Kara's return make it easier.

His father is the Fleet Commander, the one who protects them all, the one who has to be strong for all 40,000 of them even if it kills him—and Lee is growing increasingly scared that it _will_, but prays that it won't. Except he doesn't pray, because he has always been a die-hard atheist, and that's the only thing about himself he still recognizes from _before_. 

"You were born to accomplish great things," a priestess tells him as he walks past her in a crowded hallway. He doesn't even know which ship he's on. He's too busy thinking about his failed marriage, Kara's return and what it might mean, the trial and the verdict and the loss of his commission, to pay attention to details such as what he's going to eat today and where he's going to sleep.

The priestess is waiting for him to reply, so he does. "Right," he says, and spares her a polite smile because after all, she's not responsible for the mess his life has become. 

She grabs his arm when he tries to sidestep her, her grip surprisingly strong for such an old woman, her fingers digging into his biceps. "You need to believe in yourself," she says, her intent gaze seeming to pierce right through all his defenses, stripping him naked in the crowd, leaving only himself—and with time, he has grown used to the fact that most people don't think that he has much to offer. Hell, maybe they're right.

At least, in the military, he could do something that mattered, could make people's life a little better by being a good pilot.

What good did he ever do as a civilian? Partly thanks to him, the biggest traitor to the human race got away scot-free, and maybe it wasn't worth sacrificing his whole life for the sake of his principles. Maybe if he had done what he was told instead of rebelling again, he would still be in a position to help the Fleet.

"The answers won't come from others, Mister Adama," the priestess says.

_How do you know my name?_ he wants to ask. _What do you know about me? _

She's still talking, though. "Only you can know what you think. Only you can decide which of your convictions are worth fighting for."

"No," he blurts out.

She holds his gaze and for a second he feels hatred—for this woman who doesn't know him and presumes to tell him who he is, for his father and the President who refused to listen, dismissing him like an annoying kid to be sent off to bed, for Romo who listened too well and dragged him into this, for Kara who tried to kill herself, for Leoben who put the idea in her head, for the Cylons who destroyed everything he loved, for Baltar and for himself. Mostly for himself.

"Your words heal," he priestess says, and Lee laughs, a desperate, broken, bitter sound that shames him.

He knows about destroying a lot better than he knows about building—he who keeps antagonizing his father, who ran out on his pregnant girlfriend, who committed murder and abandoned his own people and gave up when things got too hard.

"You'll remember one day," she says.

There's no mistaking the compassion in her eyes and he wants to hit her, no matter that she's an eighty-year-old woman. He restrains himself. He has that much dignity left.

He's surprised when he hears himself asking, "Remember what?" his voice foreign to his own ears.

"That for every life you sacrificed, you saved another. That for every word you said who hurt someone, another of your words helped."

_You're wrong, _he wants to tell her. _You have no idea._

"You see far ahead, Mister Adama. You see what we should be, as well as what we are. Sooner or later, we will need that, if we are to survive."

He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.

"I don't believe in the gods," he says, his last defense against this woman trying to push him into a role he doesn't believe in, doesn't want.

"It doesn't matter." He sees that light in her eyes—the one the believers always have when they talk about their faith, proving that it sustains them in times of doubt. "They don't need you to believe in them, just as long as you believe in yourself."

With that, she pats his shoulder and releases him, vanishing into the crowd as suddenly as she appeared, leaving him alone among strangers.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three hours later, he has eaten some processed algae and gotten himself a cot in a communal room for the night. When he steps in, the other three occupants of the room shoot him a disinterested look before going back to what they were doing—one of them lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, the other two listlessly playing triads.

It's the middle of the day. Lee wonders if this is what these people do all day. He never stopped to consider what life was like on the Fleet until he resigned from the military. What little he saw during his odd visits on civilian ships or when he investigated the black market wasn't heart-lifting, but he didn't really think about what most civilians did all day.

It has been so long since the last time he was a civilian himself.

He gets to the only unoccupied cot and sits down, setting his bag next to him. A change of clothes, a toothbrush and a razor. And of course, an envelope containing papers he tries (and fails) not to think about.

After the first day of the war, all he had left were his uniform and his flight suit, and not even a change of underwear.

After the Pegasus exploded, all he had was his uniform.

He stopped long ago trying to accumulate things. They don't matter that much.

_Your words heal._

He snorts to himself. Sometimes, it seems that the end of the world turned everyone into mystics. 

Sometimes, he almost envies people their faith.

There was a time when he had certainties. He thought that his father represented everything that was wrong with career officers putting their crew before their own families. He thought he was born to fly. He thought he wouldn't follow into his father's footsteps and wouldn't hurt the people he loved.

He thought he would always manage to be proud of himself, or at least be able to look at his reflection and not drop his gaze.

Of course, all that was before Zak's death, before he advised the president to leave civilian ships behind in order to save those who could be saved, before he blew up a civilian transport (gods, there were _children_ on board and these faces at the windows are still staring at him accusingly), before he committed mutiny and murder. Before he cheated on his wife. Before he allowed his best friend, the woman he loved, to die because he didn't want to read the signs.

_Kara's back,_ he reminds himself, as he has been doing a lot since they took her—kicking and screaming—to the brig.

_Kara's back, and she's still the same old Kara. And they think she's a Cylon, and they won't let you anywhere near her, and they're right, because no matter what the right decision is, you won't be able to make it._

The only problem is he doesn't trust his father or the President or, gods forbid, Tigh, to make the right decision either.

His eyes are starting to burn and he rests his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his hands.

He doesn't recognize his father, doesn't recognize the woman he used to admire so much, doesn't recognize himself.

Kara's in a cell.

They must have started interrogating her now. What if they don't like her answers?

What if she's a Cylon—the enemy. Artificial. Mechanic. _Not real._

Are they going to kill her then? Push her into an airlock and open the outer hatch and watch her be sucked into space?

Would he still love her if she was a Cylon?

No.

Yes.

"Hey, you okay?" someone asks from next to Lee, startling him. He raises his head and blinks as he comes face to face with one of the other occupants of the room—one of the triad players, a forty-something man with hair that's starting to gray at the temples—and notices how unnaturally silent it is. He shoots a look around, wondering how long he stayed motionless, lost in his world. Everyone is looking at him.

He says, "Yes," not caring one bit that he sounds like he doubts it himself.

"You sure?" the man insists.

The other triad player is looking at them both, waiting for his answer too, and Lee nods. "Sure."

It's just that now that his anger and his self-righteous indignation are spent, now that his grief has abated, now that Kara's back, he doesn't know how to fix the situation they find themselves in.

"Well…" the man says, retreating back to the table.

Lee swallows thickly, throws a strangled "Thanks," over his shoulder, waiting for a nod of acknowledgment before lying down on the cot.

The envelope in his bag seems to scream, beckoning for his attention, but he doesn't want to deal with it. 

Yet another thing he hadn't seen coming; like his father, he has been served with divorce papers, and he has another decision to make. He might still save his marriage, if he's ready to fight hard, if—

If he abandons Kara to her fate. If he acts like he doesn't care anymore about what happens to her.

If he pretends he doesn't love her anymore.

He was never much of an actor.

Sighing, he blindly reaches for his bag and unzips it, never taking his eyes off ceiling, wondering how long he could keep doing that without going insane while life is going on around him.

His fingers close on the thick paper of the envelope and he takes it out, opens it. He and Dee didn't get a religious blessing, so it's just an administrative formality. Just one sheet of paper for him to sign, and their marriage will be over.

He glances quickly at the standard form, then stares at his wife's neat signature at the bottom.

"Does anyone have a pen?" he asks aloud. He doesn't really expect an answer so he's surprised when one of the men replies, "Yes."

Lee sits up and catches the pen thrown at him. "Thanks," he calls.

The shrug he gets in reply is expected. "I just hope it works," the man says.

_I hope it doesn't, _Lee thinks, but whatever his flaws might be, procrastinating isn't one of them. He doesn't even feel like apologizing to Dee for his actions during the trial. For not loving her enough, for not loving her like he promised he would, maybe. Not for what he did. He realizes now that if he had to do it again, he would, even knowing what it cost him, even if he's still not sure it was the _right_ thing to do.

He scribbles his name next to Dee's, surprised that he doesn't feel more empty, more sad, more anything.

They married forever, for better and for worse, and it should feel like he's losing something important, but it doesn't.

He refuses to read anything into that.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

All night, Lee thinks about the priestess, her words haunting him.

_You were born to accomplish great things._

He wants to ask the president how she felt when she learned that her destiny was to be the dying leader, their guide to Earth. Once upon a time, he might have, but he burned that bridge when he convinced Romo to let him interrogate her.

The President, like his father (like himself), isn't the kind of person who forgives easily. She might be able to move on eventually, but she won't forget, just like his father never forgot Kobol, and just like Lee never forgot Cain.

For the most part, he thinks that the priestess was full of crap. No big surprise, considering that it's the opinion he holds about most religious people. He doesn't feel like the universe has big plans for him—and if it does, well, it's screwed, because Lee never did well with big plans.

He doesn't think he's any different than the other 40,000 people on the Fleet, ordinary people who're just holding on as well as they can until they find a place where they can belong again.

_But what about the meantime? What if it takes us another few years? What if it takes us a lifetime? Will you spend the rest of your life waiting for the goal to be within reach?_

_Will you spend your life sitting on the sidelines while others make decisions about who you are and what you should do? Or will you try to make your voice heard?_

He did make his voice heard, even if it was through Romo's maneuvering.

_Only you can know what you think. Only you can decide which of your convictions are worth fighting for._

Just like he fought against the coup d'état, just like he fought for Baltar's right for a trial. Just like he argued for the virus to be used against the Cylons before they could cross another line and put an end to the human race altogether. Just like he murdered Phelan because he had crossed a line.

Nothing makes his opinion worth more than the next guy's, but it's his.

_Great. So, now what?_

He rolls over to his side, fingering the wedding ring he's still wearing. His father never got rid of his; does he cling to the past that much? Lee doesn't think he'll still be wearing that ring in another ten years, but he's not ready to throw it away just yet. Nor is he ready to throw Kara to the wolves until he can make sure that she doesn't at least want his help.

He's not sure what he should do but he knows what he _wants_ to do.

Decision made, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he enters the brig, the visitor badge hanging around his neck, Kara is doing push-ups on the floor of her cell. She gets to her feet slowly, glaring at him and he savors the sight of her, breathless and dizzy and a little afraid of the violence of the feelings he still has for her.

It feels like centuries since the last time they were so close to each other and here she is—not the woman who betrayed him on New Caprica, not anymore, but Starbuck; his best friend, the one who saved his life, the one who challenges him mercilessly, for better and for worse.

She's behind bars again, and he has sprung her from jail so many times in the past that he can almost believe that this is just another brawl gone bad, just another simple case of signing her out and sobering her up. He'll sign the register, she'll get out and then they'll laugh it off.

"What the hell took you so long?" she asks. He can see she's taking in the civilian clothes, the three-days stubble on his face, and catches her concerned glance. "New look?" 

"Like it?" he replies evenly. "Sorry about the delay, I had a few things to take care of. You've been waiting?" he adds with a smile meant just for her.

"Starbuck waiting on Apollo's lazy ass? That'll be the day," she retorts, her eyes wrinkling a little as she smiles up at him, and suddenly it doesn't matter anymore if everything else in his life has gone down the drain with the trial, doesn't matter if he doesn't know who he is anymore, because no matter what, she does. As long as one of them gets their head together, they'll be all right.

* * *

TBC 


	2. Part Two

**Title** : What's my Line?

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.

**Spoilers** : Everything aired so far is fair game.

**Disclaimer** : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**AN**. This one is… weird. The first part is heavily angsty, the second is relatively light-hearted and full of snarky!Lee, and the third falls somewhere in the middle. So, obviously, tone-consistency issues. That's just the way it popped into my mind. If it can help, consider this as three only-vaguely-related ficlets. I do.

**AN2**. Heartfelt thanks to joey51 for her help with this. As usual, I tinkered; all remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**What's my Line?**

Helen C.__

_Part Two_

When Lee wakes up with a blinding headache, his thoughts worryingly muddled and slow, his arms tied to the back of a chair, instead of being afraid or pissed off or anything he might have expected, all he gets is a sense of… Well, he's not sure there's a word for it, actually. If there is, he's not in any shape to come up with it. All he knows is that he's getting tired of these bad men wannabies and that he never used to get into so much trouble before the war—not even when Starbuck was around, playing the trouble magnet. And boy, was she an effective magnet.

"Ah, you're conscious," someone drones out near his ear. "Good. I was afraid they'd hit you too hard."

Lee sighs and raises his head. He might as well find out who has him this time and why his head hurts so much. After all, it's not like he has anything better to do—no urgent meetings, no reports to write, no one waiting for him at home. He laughs at the thought, then wonders if they drugged him, because really, that wasn't even remotely funny.

The unwelcome face of Baltar, still unshaven and with long hair—a look that makes him look even more like a nutcase than talking to walls did—appears in his line of sight. The man is frowning and his expression strikes Lee as deeply ridiculous and funny. He keeps laughing, his attempts at stopping himself only making the urge stronger.

"I told you not to give him any drugs," Baltar is yelling at someone. Then, his eyes take on the distant quality they sometimes do and he yells, "No, no, no. If you think I'm going to listen to you…"

Lee doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. He needs to study the situation, and figure out what Baltar wants, and try to find a way to escape, and kick someone's ass, and take a shower (not necessarily in that order) all of which will require him to stop howling with laughter.

He focuses on the pain—pain in his head, at the back of his skull, pain in his arms from being restrained in such a position, numbness in his hands where the blood flow is being restricted, and he's pretty sure someone kicked him in the gut because now that he's paying attention, his stomach doesn't feel too happy with its current status.

He wonders what algae looks like, coming back up, but thinking about food—especially that kind of food—makes the nausea even worse.

Baltar is studying him, arms crossed over his chest, a finger resting on his chin—the picture of puzzlement. 

Lee briefly entertains the idea of telling him to stop taking on mad scientist poses if he wants them to be able to have a discussion this century, then decides against it. Baltar may be a buffoon, but he's a buffoon who managed to abduct Lee while he was on Colonial One, if he can trust the moment when his memory stopped recording what was going on and took a leave of absence, and that's theoretically impossible.

He'd do well not to underestimate the doctor just because he looks like a guru—Lee takes a look around, noting the seven women also present—surrounded by part of his harem. Especially when some of the women belonging to said harem carry weapons. He doesn't think they're in Baltar's headquarters, though. The room is unfurnished except for a chair and a table; the scene is lit by candles, which is just wrong, and the practical side of Lee points out that it makes for very inefficient oxygen consumption.

"Interesting," Baltar finally comments. "Did they train you to resist drugs at War College?"

_Yes, _Lee wants to say. _They gave me all kinds of substances until I could think clearly even when drugged to the eyeballs. The instructors were just that willing to take the risk of exposing pilots to drugs that might have negative effects on their reflexes, their ability to think or their psychological balance. Dumbass. _

It seems he has some control over his mouth, though, because what he says is, "No."

"Hm." Baltar looks briefly disturbed, distracted, as if he's listening to someone Lee can't hear. Weird. He had stopped doing that during the trial, so far as Lee can remember. "Well, no matter."

There's a pause that stretches long enough that Lee starts to get bored. There was a time when he would have considered being held prisoner highly unnerving and terrifying. Apparently, Baltar just isn't that good at instilling fear into the heart of his captives. Just boredom and a strong need to shower. And, also, throw up.

Yup, still nauseous. Lee takes a few quiet, deep breaths, relieved when his stomach stops screaming for his attention. A temporary reprieve, Lee suspects, but it allows him to ask, "So, Doctor, what am I doing here?"

"You don't sound worried," Baltar says, sounding put out.

Lee stomps down on all the insulting replies he wants to make to that and says, "I'm guessing that if you wanted to kill me, I'd be dead already."

The room is relatively dark but even in the light of the candles—how did the mystics know to bring candles to the end of the world?—Baltar's look of dismay is clear. "Of course, I don't want you dead. You helped me!"

Lee decides against nodding (his head _hurts_ and it might revive the nausea). "Well, then…" he trails off, hoping it will be encouragement enough for Baltar to explain himself.

It is.

Baltar starts talking and goes on for a long time. Lee stops listening once the man starts repeating himself—instead passing time studying the faces of his followers. 

Rumors about Baltar's new lifestyle have floated into the President's office in the last months. Lee has learned to deal with Roslin's acerbic remarks and the reproachful looks she keeps throwing at him, looks that remind him that the reason why Baltar is still a thorn in their side is because Lee chose to speak up against her. 

He's just relieved that his father hasn't joined in the blame game. It seems that as far as he's concerned, the whole thing is done and never to be discussed again. Lee has been hurt and disappointed by this avoidance tactic before but in this case, he's grateful for it.

He knows just what he did, and while he lives with it better than he lives with some of the other things he did since the beginning of the war, it doesn't mean that it's _easy_.

He briefly listens to Baltar, tunes him out again when he sees that the man hasn't changed tracks yet—he's the savior of the human race but no one will hear him out so he wants Lee to help him make his voice heard, since people listen to _him_. 

The faces of the women who help Baltar (and Lee tries very hard not to think about how far that help stretches) are rapt with attention, their eyes following every move he makes, drinking in his words. Lee wishes he could believe that they've been slipped something, that they're not in their right minds, but he knows better.

There have always been people to admire criminals. Hell, Zarek has followers too, people who would happily give their lives for him.

Just like his father's men would sacrifice themselves so that their beloved Commander could live, and Lee refuses to follow that comparison any further. Whatever his father's flaws, he's not playing in the same category as Zarek and Baltar (two total scumbags who got to relatively high positions of power thanks to the war, and there's something profound about what the thirst for power and the struggle for survival and _fear_ can do to a race hidden in that, but now isn't the time to get philosophical).

He got abducted and drugged by a bunch of idiots and—

"Are you listening?" Baltar snaps his fingers in front of his eyes and Lee blinks up at him. He hadn't noticed that the man had stopped talking.

"What?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"No," Lee replies. At Baltar's look of outrage (and either Lee's hallucinating or there are angry whispers amongst his followers), he adds, "I did get the gist of it. You know how to save us all, but because you're, well, you, people won't listen and you want me to help."

Baltar looks pacified with his answer. "It is, of course, more complicated than that."

_It's really not, doctor, _he thinks, but then his eyes catch movement in the hallway outside the room through the small window on the hatch.

"So?" Baltar asks impatiently. 

"So what?" Lee asks, intent on not looking openly at the hatch. Either the idiots don't believe in standing guard or their guards have just been neutralized.

Baltar uses the tone he'd probably have used to explain something to a dim ten-year-old. "So, will you help me?"

Lee could tell him that yes, sure, he'll help, why the frak not, it's not like he has better things to do with his life, but he doesn't think the doctor is stupid enough to believe that one. "We're not friends," he points out instead. "You're still a coward and an asshole and frankly, you're raving like a lunatic and that's not exactly confidence-inspiring as far as saving us all goes."

Baltar doesn't look happy with his answer. "But you helped me once," he says. "You made them see—"

Lee cuts him off. He's so damn tired of people misinterpreting what he did as a sign that he thought Baltar was a good guy. "That they shouldn't kill you? Doesn't mean you don't deserve to die, doctor." He spits out the last word like an insult.

Baltar jerks back as if Lee had hit him.

All the tension is making Lee's nausea come back full force. Great.

"But… but… but…" Baltar stammers as he familiarizes himself with an idea that should have been obvious from the way Lee and Romo washed their hands free of him ten minutes after the end of the trial. Eventually, he gathers himself enough to offer, "I could pay you."

Lee's voice is strained when he asks, "With what? In case you didn't notice, money isn't so useful anymore."

"It is in the black market," Baltar replies.

He's right, of course, but Lee doesn't deal with the black market. "I'm not interested in money." _But if you can buy us a time traveling machine so we can go back to the day when we built our first Cylon and warn our ancestors not to do it, then, I might consider helping you. _That's just about the one thing Lee's interested in at this point; well, that, and a working relationship with his father, but through avoidance and drinking whenever they spend time together, they've reached a point where they can be in the same room without pissing each other off, so there's progress on that front at least.

"There has to be a way."

_Not many people ever said no to you, did they, Baltar?_

He thinks he hears a sound outside, and the bad news is that one of the women also does and gets to her feet.

Damn it. He has to keep them all focused on him until the Marines can storm the place and he has no idea how to do that. "Well…" he says softly, then tries for the thing that's more likely to offend them all—it's far from an elegant strategy, but it's all he can come up with. "If I could have my way with that one," he adds with a smile he hopes is more suggestive than embarrassed or disgusted. He jerks his head in the direction of the woman who's standing; she's old enough to be his mother and he hopes to hell that he's not blushing right now.

She stares at him, mouth slightly agape.

All the other women stare at him; he can feel their eyes burning holes in him and he refrains from squirming.

Baltar stares at him, his eyes comically wide. "I'd never have thought," he says, sounding offended.

Lee decides to hammer it home. It's not like things can get much worse. "What? You want to keep her all to yourself?"

The woman looks furious but it's Baltar who slaps him, hard enough that his head is thrown back to the side and his eyes water. "You're trying to anger us," Baltar says calmly, rubbing his hand as Lee reminds himself that shaking his head clear would be a bad move. It's all he can do not to get sick here and now. "Buying time. Well, it won't work."

The pounding in Lee's head resumes with a vengeance but at least, everyone is looking at him now, and not at the hatch.

Baltar goes on. "I have a destiny." If Lee was free to move as he wants, he'd start banging his head against the nearest bulkhead, because Baltar just had to use _that _word, didn't he? "And so do you."

Lee would be willing to overlook a lot of things—being knocked unconscious, being drugged, getting his ear talked off by a lunatic—but he's sick to hell of people using that word. By now, the assault team he dearly hopes isn't a figment of his imagination must be ready.

The nausea is getting worse by the second and he doesn't fight it back this time.

"So, what's your answer?" Baltar asks, leaning down so they're face to face.

Lee won't get such a wonderful opening again.

He throws up on Baltar.

A few seconds later, there's an explosion. Something clatters on the ground close to Lee, and then there's smoke everywhere, and people screaming and yelling orders.

He feels his bounds being cut off as he starts coughing, tears of strain running down his face.

Baltar's horrified face follows him as he sinks into unconsciousness, just as two pairs of arms grab him and drag him out.

If Lee could draw in a breath, he'd be laughing to tears.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

His father is peering down at him when he opens his eyes, seeming to loom impossibly high above, almost floating on clouds, and Lee wants to laugh for a while.

He concludes that someone must have given him some of the good stuff at some point.

He feels stoned.

A different kind of stoned than earlier in the day—or was it yesterday?—but stoned nonetheless.

Nonetheless is a funny word. So is stoned.

"Lee," his father says. "How do you feel?"

"Stoned," he replies, a giggle in his voice. He glimpses his father's smile before his eyes drift shut again.

"Aside from that?" the man asks him, and he sounds amused, damn him. Or not. After all, it _is_ pretty funny.

"Depends." He wants to scratch his nose, but moving his arms seems more trouble than it's worth, so he lies still.

"On what?" his father replies after what feels like hours. Each syllable seems to stretch for several minutes and it takes Lee a little while to decipher the meaning of the words.

Yup. He's definitely been given the good stuff. 

"Lee?"

He asks, "Did I puke on Baltar?"

The sound that follows is so unusual that Lee forces his eyes open to check that his mind isn't playing tricks on him. Sure enough, his father's laughing. Lee hopes he'll remember that when he's better; it's not something that happens often, especially now.

When his father regains his composure, Lee closes his eyes again. The light doesn't hurt as much as the other times he woke up, but it still bothers him. He kind of misses the candles. He wonders what happened to them. Where they confiscated? Spaced for being a fire hazard? Given back to the rest of Baltar's cult?

"Yes," his father says, his voice still sounding amused. "And the Marines are very grateful that you haven't forgotten how to aim and fire."

Lee snorts, and the sound is funny enough that he chuckles in reaction. "Always happy to make the Marines happy." He hopes his voice isn't too slurred for the words to get through. Then, a thought occurs to him. "No one was hurt, right?" He tries to open his eyes but before he has the time to figure out how to do that, his father replies, "Aside from you, no."

His voice is sober this time, and a hand comes to rest on Lee's shoulder for a few seconds.

There's a sound—metal grating against metal—and Lee mutters, "What are you doing?" when his brain can't supply him with an explanation for it.

"Sitting down." 

Oh. Right. He should have known that.

He's very, very stoned. Truly. Deeply. Utterly. Hopelessly. Absolutely. Stoned.

"Cottle says you'll be fine," his father tells him.

"I feel stoned," Lee says. _Really stoned. More stoned than when Baltar had me._ "It's weird."

"He gave you something in the evening, when he felt safe that the head injury wasn't too severe."

"Neat." Lee manages to get one eye to open long enough to spy bright yellow spots dancing on the white curtain shielding his bed from the rest of sickbay. "I feel really, really stoned."

"Enjoy it while it lasts." By the time Lee looks in his direction again, his father's staring at his clasped hands resting near Lee's arm.

"Yeah." He has the strange feeling he's starting to float, and he thinks he says something along the lines of it being almost like flying again before the drugs drag him under.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time Romo swings by to visit him, Lee feels well enough to be embarrassed that he got taken prisoner by a bunch of civilians led by the village's… well, it's not like Baltar is an idiot, even though he is. It's not even that he's a monster, even though he is. It's just that it's Baltar, and frak but Starbuck is never going to let him live this one down. He understands; if he was in her shoes, he'd do the same thing. After all, what are friends for?

"What are you doing here?" he asks once Romo has taken a seat.

"Well, our client—"

"—former client," Lee throws in, shrugging when Romo shoots him one of his patented looks—a look that tells him he knows more than Lee does and he sees straight to him.

"—former client," Romo acknowledges, "asked to see me. I assume it's about his recent trouble, but I haven't seen him yet, so I can only conjecture."

Lee isn't sure how he feels about that. He knows Baltar will be tried for what he did, but really, the worst that can happen to him is to be sentenced to a few months in jail. No one was hurt, no one was killed, and a stay in a cell is just likely to make him even more popular amongst the nutcases than he already is.

His father's voice from the curtain surprises him. "And you're seeing him against my better judgment."

Lee turns to Romo in time to see him nod politely, then to his father to see his equally polite nod, and the tension rises in the room. "Could you please get on the same side of the bed?" he asks, and they both stare at him askance "Still got a headache, and this isn't helping."

His father complies wordlessly, then launches into his attack. Lee allows him and Romo to talk uninterrupted for a while—a debate involving mostly the rights of any prisoner to a fair trial and the fact that Romo likes his job. Lee wonders if his father finds it as fascinating as he does to talk with someone who knew Joseph Adama, the lawyer—not just the father or the grandfather, but the man.

When his father and Romo are done defending their respective views, he asks Romo, "Are you going to defend him?"

Romo smiles—the kind of smile that makes Lee want to hit him very hard. "I have a rule, Mister Adama. I do not defend clients who are stupid enough to get caught twice in less than a year."

"What happened to everyone's right to a fair trial?" his father asks, his tone so oddly reminiscent of Starbuck that Lee has to hide a laugh behind a cough.

"There are other lawyers out there, Admiral. My time will be better employed helping… other clients of mine who need it more." He turns to Lee without waiting for a reply. "He asked, if you can believe it, that you help me defend him."

Lee laughs incredulously. "Right. Aside from the fact that I'll be cited as a witness—"

"Which didn't stop us once," Romo throws in with a hint of triumph in his voice.

Lee carefully avoids looking at his father. His head is starting to hurt again and he wants to finish this conversation before he has to ask them to leave. "I'm not a lawyer."

"You did defend Kara," his father points out, his voice neutral.

Lee's relieved that at least that's something his father doesn't hold against him. He's not sure he helped much anyway. He'd like to think that his being here, arguing for them to treat her like a human being until they got proof that she wasn't, at least ensured that she got a fighting chance instead of being summarily executed. Mostly, though, he has the feeling that they—his father, the President and Tigh—did just what they wanted. "She's a friend. Baltar's… not." He chuckles at the euphemism, then absently rubs his eyes as the headache gets a little worse.

He misses being stoned.

His father spots the gesture. "You want me to go ask Cottle for—"

Lee cuts him off. "No. I just need to sleep." Both his father and Romo get to their feet—his father surprisingly quickly, Romo more slowly.

"I'll go tell our former client that he'll need to find someone else," he says. "I can even recommend one of my colleagues."

"What did he ever do to you?" Lee blurts out before he can stop himself, and Romo looks like a teacher when one of his students has finally given the correct answer after days of struggling through a problem.

"She hasn't done anything to me. I just think she would welcome the challenge."

Romo leaves on a courteous nod to Lee but his father lingers for a while, absently smoothing a wrinkle in Lee's covers before finally stepping out, and allowing Lee to get to sleep.

* * *

TBC 


	3. Part Three

**Title** : What's my Line?

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : He's not a savior. The Fleet doesn't need another savior anyway; it needs a miracle and he's just one man—not even a soldier, not even a pilot anymore.

**Spoilers** : Everything aired so far is fair game.

**Disclaimer** : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**AN**. This one is… weird. The first part is heavily angsty, the second is relatively light-hearted and full of snarky!Lee, and the third falls somewhere in the middle. So, obviously, tone-consistency issues. That's just the way it popped into my mind. If it can help, consider this as three only-vaguely-related ficlets. I do.

**AN2**. Heartfelt thanks to joey51 for her help with this. As usual, I tinkered; all remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**What's my Line?**

Helen C.__

_Part Three_

Baltar doesn't stay in prison very long—a mere six months that allow him to write another book. The one good thing about the paper shortage is that at least it won't be widely distributed any time soon.

The doctor was always good at creating annoyances in Lee's life—from sleeping with Kara to Lee's abduction. So, Lee's not surprised when he steps out of the shuttle on the Gemenon Traveler, takes a few steps on the landing deck, trying to spot his contact—the President asked him to make a few enquiries about the black market, which seems to be going through a change of leadership—and something hard suddenly digs into his back.

What does surprise him is that Baltar managed to creep up on him without attracting his attention; either he's getting sloppy or the doctor is getting better at handling guns and kidnappings.

The fact that Baltar is alone is also bewildering. The man doesn't go anywhere without his body guards anymore, too aware of the remaining resentment against him in the Fleet.

"Let's take a walk," Baltar says. The spy-novel situation brings a smile to Lee's lips, which raises Baltar's suspicions. "What's so funny?"

"This is the second time in less than a year you're taking me prisoner, Doctor Baltar. Are you trying to tell me something?" He emphasizes the last word and Baltar groans once he gets the insinuation.

"Oh, please." The gun doesn't rest any easier against Lee's back but the doctor seems agitated. "You think we have time for these little games? Something very important is going on."

"What's that?" Lee asks in spite of himself.

"Our destiny awaits us."

While he can't see the doctor's face, his tone is indication enough that the man believes it and will do all it takes to accomplish whatever he has set out to do. Lee has dealt with enough lunatics—of the religious kind or not—in the military and out of it, to know that Baltar will die to reach his goal, if need be.

Great.

And the day had started out so well.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three hours later, Baltar is dead and Lee's facing a Leoben model on a deserted basestar—a basestar that's about to be blown to pieces if Leoben is telling the truth. Lee doesn't trust him any farther than he can throw him, but ignoring the possibility that he's right could mean committing suicide, and Lee's pretty much over that.

He needs to get off this ship. The sooner, the better.

"What am I doing here?" he asks when it becomes clear that glaring at each other isn't making the situation evolve in any significant way.

"You're here to fulfill your destiny," Leoben replies, the smile on his lips disturbingly reminiscent of Romo—the kind of smile that conveys that Leoben knows everything Lee always wanted to know, but will only impart his knowledge if the right questions are asked.

Lee looks down at Baltar's corpse; the man collapsed on the floor when Leoben shot him in the chest, his arms spread out at his side, an expression of surprise on his face. It would be funny if it didn't mean that the Cylons managed to kill yet another human—even a scumbag like Baltar.

Baltar came here to fulfill his destiny. There's still a gun slipped under his belt, Lee notices absently. The same gun he pointed at Lee as they boarded the shuttle, as they jumped here, as they walked through the empty corridors, and up until they stepped into the control room of the basestar.

"I was really hoping you wouldn't say something like that," Lee says, taking a step to Baltar as if the sight of the body made him feel untold compassion instead of a furious urge to kick it repeatedly.

Leoben talks like he learned the words by heart but doesn't really understand what he's saying. For all Lee knows, it might be the case. There's no reason why religion should make more sense to the Cylons than it does to the humans. "God has big plans for all living beings, big or small."

Lee looks at him. "Yes. Like he has big plans for Kara?" _What are his plans for her, now that she has died and come back?_

_Come to think about it, why did she come back? Did your God send her back or was it something else? Something you don't understand, something you hadn't predicted? _

_Was her return part of your plans, or not?_

"Kara will lead the human race to either its destruction or its salvation," Leoben replies. "It's not clear which."

Lee can't help the undercurrent of fury that creeps into his voice when he says, "I think the Cylons already managed to lead the human race to its destruction pretty well."

He's staring at Leoben and sees the man smile—not a hint of remorse, of regret, of doubt. This is obviously one of the Cylons who think that their cause was just and that the humans brought down what happened on themselves by their actions.

_But you had a choice, too, _Lee thinks ferociously, aware that his face is screaming his hatred even if his voice isn't. _You could have chosen to be better than us; you could have chosen not to murder us to the last one. You could have chosen to be merciful, instead of being vengeful._

"Such a linear, down-to-earth, way of thinking," Leoben says. "What some call destruction, others call a prelude to rebirth."

Twelve destroyed planets, billions of dead people.

Lee has to close his eyes, try to calm down before he launches himself at Leoben who's still pointing a gun at him. 

A prelude to rebirth? Even if the 40,000 survivors who are still trying to flee the Cylons survive long enough to see Earth, their civilization will never recover from the blow, never be reborn.

"A better civilization might still emerge from the ashes of the old one," Leoben insists.

Lee doubts it. Hatred breeds hatred, and what the Cylons did wasn't an act of love. He has seen what the humans are now willing to do, to accept, in their struggle for survival. Maybe, one day, the future generations will forget and move on, but that won't be for a very long time. If ever.

Assuming they survive.

Assuming they don't end up slaves or test subjects to the Cylons.

Assuming.

"Nothing to say?" Leoben asks. He tssks, shaking his head in staged disappointment. "It's so much more enjoyable with Kara."

Kara flying to her death, her Viper exploding as he tried to call her back, to convince her to cling to life. "I'm not Kara," he says. He takes another step to Baltar's corpse, looks down at it. "What do you want?"

Leoben must be getting tired of these little games. "You have a destiny."

"You don't say," Lee shoots back. Did the Cylons tell Baltar that he had a destiny, as well? Or did Baltar come to that conclusion by himself? When Baltar led Lee to this control room, when he told Leoben that he had come to fulfill his destiny, the Cylon laughed. "You're nothing," he said, before shooting Baltar.

Lee doesn't want to have a destiny if the best he can hope is to die in a useless way, hurting others in the process.

Leoben ignores him. "God has big plans for you."

"So a priestess told me." Lee smiles at him—the smile he usually reserves for terrorists being interrogated, or Zarek. "I killed her," he lies.

Leoben throws his head back and laughs. The Cylons don't laugh very well, Lee observes for the first time. It seems forced, as if they didn't quite know how to go about it. "That's better," Leoben says. "That's something Kara would say."

Kara is back to flying Vipers. Soon, the Fleet is going to jump here, spot the basestar, notice that it's essentially defenseless and blow it to pieces—or so Leoben said when Lee and Baltar arrived.

The Cylon sighs deeply. "We're losing time. You need to take me back to the Fleet. With you on board, they won't shoot the transport I'm on."

"I don't believe in your God," Lee says without acknowledging the request. He kneels down next to Baltar's body, his left hand hovering over the doctor's open eyes. He touches the still-warm skin, closes the eyes gently, pretending he cares, while his right hand closes on the gun. His voice is hard when he adds, "Nor in any of mine."

Leoben looks at him with exasperation. "Your destiny—"

"Screw destiny," Lee says. He brings his arm up and Leoben's eyes widen. He opens his mouth to say something but doesn't shoot Lee on the spot, and that's his biggest mistake of the day. Lee has had enough talk to last him for a lifetime, and he's not interested in anything the Cylon could possibly tell him.

He fires the gun, taking a dark satisfaction in the fact that his aim isn't off. He gets Leoben in the forehead, between the eyes.

Kara would be proud of that shot.

As if thinking about her had summoned her, the basestar suddenly rocks. The floor rises under Lee's feet, sending him flying a few feet away. He lands with a painful thump, hitting his knee on the metal deck. He stays folded on himself for a few seconds, winded, trying to get his bearings.

The ship is creaking around him—the teeth gnashing sound of metal tearing apart, of holes being punched into bulkheads.

He has maybe four or five minutes before the basestar is destroyed. Hell, it might be too late; if there's a hull breach between the control room and the landing deck, he's already dead.

Pushing himself to his feet, Lee takes a few staggering steps, relieved that his knee doesn't hurt badly enough to slow him down. He steps over Baltar's corpse without looking down, then takes off running.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Somehow, he manages to make it out of the basestar and to the Galactica without anyone shooting him down. The distress call he's emitting on all the frequencies he can remember from his days as a pilot probably has a lot to do with that, and when he gets the authorization to land, he lets out a breath, relieved that no one in CIC decided that it was too big a risk to take.

When he lands the shuttle on the Galactica, he steps out with his hands in sight and complies when the Marines order him to lie face down on the deck and to put his hands behind his head, fingers crossed.

He gets taken to an interrogation room, aware that everyone is looking at him on his way there and that he's in handcuffs again.

The restraints mercifully come off as soon as he gets settled in the room. Then Tigh, Sergeant Hadrian and Helo take turns asking him questions, listening to his answers, and leaving him alone. He estimates they've been at it for about four hours when Helo finally leaves on a reassuring smile.

He should certainly feel more angry at being treated like the suspect of a crime when he spent a good part of the day being held at gunpoint by a lunatic and a Cylon, but he's not. Mostly, he's just spent, and safe, and perfectly content to just sit here and wait.

When his father finally arrives, over half an hour later, Lee is staring at his fingers, splayed out on the table in front of him, hoping it'll help him to resist the pull of sleep. He raises his head when his father steps into the room and closes the hatch behind him, but doesn't get up.

"You're getting into more trouble now than when you were under my orders," his father says by way of greeting, before taking a seat across Lee at the table.

"I noticed," Lee replies. He stretches his neck; he's starting to get sore from sitting for so long. "So? What did you decide?"

"That you're getting into more trouble now than when you were under my orders," his father says, but he doesn't look angry or distrustful. "And that you're developing very unorthodox ways of dealing with being taken prisoner."

"What's so unorthodox about shooting a Cylon?" He has been second-guessing himself for the last couple of hours, though; maybe it would have been better to actually listen to what Leoben was trying to say, instead of dismissing the whole situation as yet another sign that the universe is getting more insane with each day that goes by.

"Screw destiny?" His father is smiling, a tired smile that makes Lee want to shoulder at least part of his burdens instead of constantly adding to them—an unusual sentiment, but not being on the same ship anymore seems to have allowed them to live better together.

"Seemed like the thing to say." Lee rubs his eyes, that are starting to tire in the dim light above head. "People with destinies die," he hears himself say in a remote voice. "Didn't you notice?"

He doesn't look at his father but hears him shift in his seat. These chairs are damn uncomfortable, but then, that's what they're for; can't let the interrogated guy get too comfortable. Sergeant Hadrian and Helo were courteous and almost nice, but Tigh looked like he wanted nothing more than rough Lee up. Lee's actually surprised that he didn't.

"Yes," his father eventually says.

"Of course, billions of destiny-less people also died, so maybe that doesn't mean anything." He meets his father's gaze, blinking to clear his vision. "Can I get out of here, then? Or are you here for round four?"

"Yes, you can leave." As if on cue, the hatch opens again and Lee twists in his chair to see Kara standing there. Her hair is shorter than ever, she's too thin and she looks too tired, and if he didn't watch himself, he'd fall in love with her all over again. Maybe he still is in love, in a way; maybe he has finally accepted the fact that he can love her without ever being with her, since they're a bad match any way he looks at it.

His father is speaking again and Lee focuses on him, ignoring the concerned looks Kara is throwing at him. "You should grab a shower and sleep here."

Lee wants to ask if they want to keep an eye on him because they don't trust him yet or because they care, but any way, it hardly matters. Getting some rest seems like the best idea ever, so he gets to his feet, absently rubbing his knee when it protests the movement.

"You need to see Cottle?" Kara asks.

"No."

She waits for him outside the hatch and when she rests a hand on his arm as he steps out of the room, he allows the heat from her touch to soothe his uneasiness.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's only an hour later, when he has showered, changed into sweats and used military tanks, and Kara has forced a ration of algae on him, that he finally asks, "Did you figure out what your destiny was? Did Leoben ever tell you?"

She's sipping from a bottle of moonshine, absently tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. She hands him the bottle after a moment, deep in thought, and he gulps down a few swallows, grimacing when it simultaneously sends a stabbing pain through his brain and burns its way down.

"I'm still not sure." She shrugs. "I thought I was going to lead the Fleet to Earth, but no one's listening to me. They still say they have to check. I don't know if they are, or if the old man's just placating me."

"Kara…" He holds her gaze when she turns to him but doesn't take her hand in his. "When have you ever known my father to placate anyone?"

She acknowledges the point with a tilt of her head and reclaims the bottle. "So many people told me that I had a destiny, that the gods had big plans for me. And now… It's like all the memories are fading away. Like it was all for nothing."

_You're nothing, _Leoben told Baltar when he shot him. "Having a destiny is—"

She finishes the sentence with him, their voices rising in the deserted rec room. "—overrated." 

"Leoben really didn't tell you?" Kara asks. She frowns at the bottle of moonshine then sets it aside. Kara has changed; once upon a time, she would have kicked the ass of anyone who dared keeping her away from alcohol.

Lee doesn't miss _that_ Kara too much. "Is that why I'm still here, and not on my way back to Colonial One? Because you're still wondering if I held anything back?" There was a time when that kind of question would have earned him a punch in the face and a Starbuck dressing down.

"If it is, they didn't tell me," she says, and she looks only vaguely offended at the notion, like she understands what he's going through—and chances are, she does. She looks at him, then, the worry obvious for once. "Are you holding anything back?"

"No. All he said was that I had a big destiny awaiting me, and then I got fed up and shot him in the face." Kara laughs, a clear sound full of mirth that makes Lee feel a thousand times better. The Cylons will never achieve that level of joy, of amusement. The humanoid models only got the short end of human nature—the mistrust, the bitterness, the complacency, the arrogance. Not humor, or art, or a sense of justice and of imperfection. Not love, either. Whatever else they lost, the humans still have that.

When Kara stops laughing, Lee adds, allowing the embarrassment he feels to show on his face, "If I was going to hide anything, it would be how easily Baltar got to me. Again."

"Face it, Ap—" Her mouth catches on the name, and it's not quite bittersweet. Not quite. "Lee," she says. "You're easy."

He rolls his eyes playfully. "Death really changed you, Kara. You wouldn't have settled for something so obvious before."

He knows that remark is likely to send her on several hours of teasing and he doesn't mind; neither does he mind the fact that every snide remark he has to fend off is keeping him away from a well-deserved night sleep.

It feels just like old times, before everything got cold and complicated, before they caved in to their instinct and lost themselves and each other.

For a few hours, Lee allows himself to believe that they're still Starbuck and Apollo and that nothing will ever bring them down.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A Raptor is leaving for Colonial One in forty-five minutes, which gives Lee just enough time to go by his father's quarters.

"Sleep well?" his father asks when Lee steps in at a nod from the Marine guarding the entrance.

Lee brushes a hand through his hair. He and Kara spent most of the night drinking and laughing and annoying the hell out of one another; it shows in the lines at the corner of his eyes, which are growing more pronounced by the month. 

He's growing older on this Fleet, on the run from the machines that destroyed his world, and that wasn't part of the future he envisioned as a cadet any more than becoming CAG or getting his own command ever did.

"No," he replies.

His father takes a pen and absently rolls it between his fingers. "You offered it to me when you were ten," he says absently. "It's still working."

Lee remembers; it was probably the first time his mother or his teachers didn't get a say in what gift he was getting for his father's birthday. It was also the last time he bought his father a present without feeling clouded by bitterness at the frequent missions far away from home, without anger burning in him when he spent money on a man he thought he hated.

He knows what hatred truly feels like now.

"I didn't know you still had it," he offers. Even though he has spent hours sitting across his father while they traded plans for battle or discussed long-term strategy, he doesn't remember seeing it before.

"I didn't either. I was going through an old box, about a week ago, and it was there, at the bottom." His father smiles but the smile is tinged with weariness. _The soldier in him has had enough for a while, now._ At least Lee got to resign. His father has to remain at his post until they reach Earth, and probably for a while after that, before he's finally allowed to rest.

"No one really talks about the President being the dying leader who'll guide us to Earth anymore," Lee says, taking a seat. His father nods, setting the pen neatly in front of him. "And Kara…"

"Yes. Kara." His father looks around the room as if somewhere in a corner, he could find an answer, a certainty, a clue about Kara. "What do you think?" he eventually asks. The question doesn't sound like it usually does—like a test Lee has to pass to earn his father or his commander's approval and respect. It sounds like the question of a man who just doesn't know what to believe anymore. His father doesn't allow himself to be seen so openly vulnerable very often.

"I think that if anyone tells me I have a destiny again, I'm going to shoot him in the head."

His father shakes his head softly. "I can see how you'd feel that way."

Lee stares at the papers on his father's desk; reports from all over the ship, from the deck crew, from the CAG, from the CIC; reports from civilian scientists, from the President's teams. "If we live," he says slowly, "it'll be together, not because any one of us saved us all." He smiles ruefully. "Humanity will save itself. Or not." Some days, he's leaning towards the not, because the humans sure seem determined on showing the worst they can do instead of working on the best, but on those days, he tries to think about what's good about them all, what's worth saving. "I don't know," he says. "Kara and the President may help, but they're only people."

"Pretty big ideas," his father says.

Lee looks down at his hands; the wedding ring is still shining on his finger, and he thinks that for the first time, he feels ready to let go of that remnant of the past. "I've been known to climb on my soapbox from time to time." Truth be told, he's a little surprised himself at the words that just came out of his mouth; up until now, he wouldn't have thought of wording it this way.

Gods know trust doesn't come easily (if at all) to him. To trust his own kind is very much a leap of, well, faith.

He gets to his feet, mindful of his knee—the impressive bruise adorning it will certainly bother him for a couple of weeks.

"Can we have faith in the human race?" his father wonders aloud, echoing his thoughts, and Lee thinks that it'll be a miracle if his father holds on until Earth. He didn't notice how tired the man was until he left, but he does now. "We made mistakes."

_Some of them unforgivable,_ Lee thinks, remembering the explosion that took out the Olympic Carrier. "Yes. All we can do is learn and move on." He meets his father's gaze. "Or so commanders and priests and presidents and friends keep telling me."

Lee doesn't know where the salvation of the Fleet lies, but he's sure that the Cylons don't either. It'll be the job of the humans to find it.

All he can do is help his race fight for its survival, and try to make his father's life a little easier. "Do you want to grab something to eat?" he asks before allowing himself time to second guess it. "Later this week?"

Surprise and gratefulness and maybe some pride show on his father's face as he nods in agreement. "Sounds good."

"Great." On a quick smile, Lee gestures at his watch. "I should go. The Raptor's not going to wait for me."

His father looks at him, then around his quarters. "Or we could eat something now."

Lee has work to do on Colonial One, and he still needs to check on that black market thing, and Romo wants to see him in the evening, and the President will want a full report on what happened on the basestar. But his father's waiting, and anything could happen between now and later in the week, so Lee nods. "Now sounds good."

He sits back down as his father orders two meals. While they wait, his father starts telling him about the recent trouble he's been having with the pilots; Lee listens and hopes he'll be able to offer some advice. 

Talking may be the only way he has left to help, but he has learned, recently, never to underestimate the power of words. After all, words got Baltar acquitted and Zarek out of prison, words got the broken Fleet to reconcile over Kobol, and with luck, his words will be able to help his father. 

Maybe his destiny, such as it is, is to speak and make his voice heard. He thinks that this is where Kara and the President were wrong. Life isn't about blindly following the directions, hoping they'll take you somewhere worthwhile.

It's about making choices.

_And what if the Cylons want me to think this way?_ his logical side wonders. _What if I don't have free will at all, what if they just want me to believe that I do?_

But he can't start thinking this way; it will only drive him insane. All he can do is follow his conscience, his intelligence, his instincts, and hope they will lead him down the right path.

"You seem light-years away," his father says.

Lee nods apologetically. "Just thinking."

"Want to share?"

To Lee's surprise, he does.

* * *

end 


End file.
